Miles to Go
by Max Alleyne
Summary: She could see the tension in his body—his neck and shoulders tight, his fingers with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel—and wondered just what type of man she'd left with.  Shane/OC
1. Pleasant Surprises

**Author's note: **So, this is my first venture into "The Walking Dead" fandom, so be gentle. I've had an idea for story bouncing around for a while, and the episode Sunday gave me a good starting place. So, if you haven't seen 2.03, this contains spoilers. You have been warned.

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><p>Shane Walsh quietly pushed open the door to the FEMA trailer and prayed that he wouldn't find any nasty surprises waiting for him inside. As soon as the heavy, lumbering Otis was inside, they closed the door quietly behind them, casting complete darkness over the inside of the trailer. If a walker was waiting in the darkness, they were both up shit creek without a paddle, and they damn well knew it. Shane quickly flipped his shotgun around, fully prepared to use it as a bludgeon before turning on his flashlight. He breathed a small sigh of relief when nothing groaned and started to shamble his way. He gagged a bit at the smell, though.<p>

He quickly scoured the shelves, looking of the oxygen and respirator tubes that Carl needed. He shined the light through the trailer, reading labels as he went and trying to remember what it all meant. Betadine, Doxyclyclin, and various other drugs and bottles sat on the shelves, all with unfamiliar and frighteningly complicated names. As he moved the flashlight across the room, he caught a glimpse of movement out the corner of his eye. Slowly, he drew back the shotgun, ready to swing at a moment's notice, as he moved toward the movement. He tried to ignore his sweating palms or the way that his heard was thundering against his chest. With the way it was pounding, he was surprised that every walker within a ten mile radius couldn't hear it.

"I know you're…not a walker," a low, scratchy voice said. "Too coordinated for that…that means that you've either got a death wish…or you're a damn moron. Which is it?"

Shane turned towards the sound of the voice, ignoring Otis's swearing and trying not to wince as he heard something hit the floor. Turning around the corner of a shelf, he saw two bodies leaning against the side of a cabinet—and older man and a young woman, though they were so emaciated, it was hard to tell how old they had been. The bodies were too thin and stinking, which told him that they hadn't died too long ago—they weren't decaying yet, after all. It was only when the female corpse moved that he realized that she was the one who had been speaking.

Shane swore violently as she grinned at him, her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace that was meant to be a weak smile. Her cheeks were sunken in, as were the sockets of her eyes—though now that he looked closer, they weren't as sunken as some of the walkers he had seen. Her clothes were hanging loosely on her emaciated frame, her hair thin and greasy as if it had fallen out in clumps.

"Jesus Christ," Otis whispered, clutching some plastic tubing to his chest.

"Yeah, I don't know…that he's listening much these days," the talking corpse answered, struggling to force the words out. "Put the damn…gun down. Walkers don't talk…and you know it."

Shane just stared at her for a minute, completely stunned. He had been prepared to deal with walkers, but running into another human being—and one in this shape—had not been something that he had planned for. It was hard to find the right words to ask what he wanted to know, so he just blurted out whatever came to mind.

"Are you…what happened?" Shane asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Got overrun. Jonathan and I were the only ones left…and he decided to check out on me a while back," she said quietly. He could see her chest heaving as she tried to get enough air to speak. It was obvious that she hadn't spoken in some time, as she tried to force the muscles of her face to move.

"How long?"

"I don't know…lost track of time. We managed to…hide in the school for a bit, and…then we moved in here when the school wasn't safe anymore."

"How…" Shane trailed off when he saw the needle in her arm. It was attached to an IV line and a saline bag hung from the shelf. A stack of empty bags sat in the corner of the trailer.

"Holy shit," he whispered, the pieces falling into place for him. "You've been…Jesus."

"Yeah…it's not great, but I don't…think you're here to talk about…me. What are you looking for?"

"Looking for?" Otis asked dumbly, still too shocked to form a coherent sentence.

"Well, judging by your fish-on-dry-land expression…I'm betting you didn't come to rescue me…so what the hell are you dumb enough to risk your ass for?"

Shane recovered and answered first. "A respirator. Sutures."

She pushed herself up off the floor and tried to stand. After several slips, she finally got to her feet and moved slowly across the trailer, leaning heavily on the shelves. With trembling hands, she pulled plastic tubing from the shelves.

"You'll need and intubation tube…it's on that shelf."

Otis kept staring at the woman in front of him, her appearance shocking him into silence and immobility. Shane nudged him with his hip, spurring the heavier man into action. He quickly started having objects into the bag, trying not to look at the woman in front of him.

She pointed to another shelf where they found the respirator. Shane carefully put it into the bag and then double checked to make sure they had everything they needed.

"That's everything you need for a respirator…unless…what do you need it for?" the woman asked.

"A boy got shot. We need the respirator to breathe for him while we get the bullet fragments out."

She nodded and moved towards another shelf, a little more steady on her feet. Her voice was getting stronger too, though it still sounded akin to nails on a chalk board. She grabbed several bags of saline off the shelf and pushed them into Shane's hands.

"If you've got to do surgery, you'll need this."

"Saline? But you've got it—"

"It's surgical saline. Can't use it in my IV anyway," she said before he could finish. "This is betadine…you'll use it to clean the skin before you open him up. And sutures…did you get the sutures?"

"I've got them," Otis said quietly.

"Then that should be everything you'll need."

"How do you know this?" Shane asked as he made sure everything was packed into the bags as well as it could possibly be. He wasn't going to take a chance on anything getting broken in there as they made a run for it.

"I'm a nurse."

"A nurse?"

"Did I stutter? I was a surgical nurse…before the shit hit the fan. Now if you're torn up bad enough, the hospitals just going ahead…and shoot you."

Shane's mind was whirling a thousand miles a minute, imagining the possibilities. Carl needed help, and they already had a doctor, but an extra pair of hands wouldn't be a bad thing, especially when it was serious. It was _Carl_ damnit, and he was going to do everything he could to improve that kid's chance of survival.

"Can you run?" he asked quietly. Otis's eyes widened as he realized where this was going.

"I can't outrun a walker, if that's what you mean."

"Can you shoot?"

"That shotgun would have knocked me on my ass before…I went on an involuntary diet. Now it'd probably snap me in half," she replied.

"What about a handgun?"

"I'm not bad."

"Come with us. You're a nurse, you can help save my little boy," he begged.

"Your little boy?"

The words had been out of his mouth before he even had time to think about it, and truthfully, he didn't want to take the time to think about it now. He didn't want to think about dinners around the campfire with Lori and Carl, or trying to teach Carl how to catch frogs. He definitely didn't want to think about Rick and Lori sitting at _their _son's bedside. It wasn't something he wanted to deal with right now.

"Come with us," he said again, not bothering to clarify for her.

She thought about it for a minute before speaking. "Make me a promise first."

"Anything." He meant it, too.

"If we get out there and I fall behind…shoot me, club me with your gun…do something, just don't let me be awake when they start…" she trailed off, unable to finish her thought. She didn't want to finish her thought.

"Done."

"Alright, then. Let's do this."

Shane quietly pushed the door open, fully ready to sneak around the edges of the parking lot back to the truck. All of his stealth was for naught, though, because a walker turned and saw them just as the door was opening. The three rushed down the stairs, trying to run in any direction that was away from the walkers. Behind him, Shane could hear someone gasping for breath, but he couldn't be sure who it was, and he didn't stop to look back. He swung his shotgun at the closest walker, hitting it in the head and dropping it.

"They've cut us off!" he called back to Otis.

"Hang a right!" the nurse gasped behind him. He did as she ordered, and turned the corner of the school and ran down a handicapped ramp, only to find more walkers waiting for them there. He swore violently, and heard her doing the same.

"Any other ideas?"

The nurse glanced back over her shoulder and saw the crowd of walkers following them, and then noticed the one in front of them as well. He could see the fear written on her face, but she didn't panic. Instead, she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards the front of the school.

Shane swung his gun, banging at the glass doors. The noise would attract every walker in the place, but he figured that most of them were already there anyway. When the glass shattered, they quickly ran inside, only to find more doors locked as the walkers closed in on them.

"Gate. Get the gate," she gasped. Tugging at the metal grating that closed in front of the now-vulnerable doors. They slammed it closed and slid the pin into place before they had to do any head-bashing, though they probably should have. They stood pressed against the wall, watching as the walkers reached through the gate for them.

"Any ideas?" Otis asked quietly. The nurse just stood there for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Shane could stared at her, waiting for some kind of feedback from her. He could still see fear in her eyes, but he also saw the determined set of her jaw and knew that she was not going to give up on him.

"Cafeteria!" she gasped, motioning for Shane to bang away at the second set of glass doors. They shattered and the trio were running down the hall; well, Shane was running, Otis was trying, and the nurse was gasping, hobbling as quickly as she could. They stopped when they reached the cafeteria to find the doors chained shut. Before waiting for her to give an order, Shane took the only route available to them and started down the hallway to the left, pushing open the doors to the gym. Immediately, he headed for higher ground and climbed the folded-up bleachers. Behind him, Otis pushed the nurse up the bleachers ahead of him as the walkers gathered underneath them.

"We can't stay up…here forever," she gasped, clutching her chest.

"Those windows," Shane answered, gesturing towards the windows on the other side of the gym above another set of bleachers. "What's out those windows?"

"About a twenty foot drop, and maybe some bushes. But I'm not gonna fit out that window," Otis answered.

"We don't have a whole hell of a lot other choices," the nurse answered.

"I do. I'll draw them off towards the locker room, and you two can take it out the windows. We'll meet back up on the sports fields," Otis said, pointing towards the locker room.

"You take three shots," Shane said. "Then I'll cover you."

Otis took his three shots and then headed towards locker room, Shane shooting after him. The shots reverberated off the walls of the gym, and even though Shane was used to shooting, his ears would be ringing for a week.

"Go!" the nurse said, pushing him towards the bleachers. They headed up the other bleachers towards the window, two walkers following them. He turned to shoot them, hitting one in the stomach and pushing the other off the top of the bleachers.

"You have to go first," she told him after looking out the window. "I need you to catch me at the bottom or I'm going to break both my legs falling from up here."

He didn't really like the plan, but he went with it and dropped the bags out the window before carefully taking hold of the windowsill and lowering himself down. Then the nurse did the same, only to have a walker grab her arms as she tried to lower herself down. She quickly grabbed the pistol Shane had given her from the waistband of her pants and shot the walker through the head, splattering blood and brain matter across the side of the building. It went limp and released her wrists, sending her tumbling down to the bushes below. Shane's arms were waiting for her at the bottom, but it wasn't the most planned or gracefully of falls. Her left foot still hit the ground, taking some of her weight, and she felt her ankle give out. She swore violently and creatively, and if they hadn't been running for their lives, ,Shane probably would have been impressed.

"How bad is it?" Shane asked quietly.

"I'll be fine. Let's go."

They made their way to the fields, the nurse hobbling as quickly as she could as Shane carried the bags behind her. As they approached the fence of the sports area, more walkers were waiting for them, growling and grabbing through the fence as they were surrounded. They started pushing through the fence and running towards them. Shane raised the shotgun and took several shots, taking out most of them. As the closest one grabbed at the nurse, he turned the gun around the hit the walker, but it dropped before he could do so as Otis shot it through the head as he came around the corner from the locker room, a horde of walkers following him.

"We're not gonna make it," the nurse gasped as they struggled across the blacktop.

"Yeah we will. Keep going," Shane said, pushing her ahead of him.

"You remember that promise you made me?" she asked as Otis caught up with them and took one of the bags from Shane.

"You're not gonna need it. We're getting the hell outta here so you can help Carl."

"Carl? That's his name?"

"Yeah, and he's gonna be fine," Shane said, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her faster. She kept walking, ignoring the shooting pain in her ankle and trying to bite back tears.

"Never said he wouldn't be. Where are we headed?"

"We'll have to double back around to where the trailer is. Truck's over there," Otis answered, walking alongside them.

"There's no way I'm going to make it that far on this ankle. And y'all won't either if you hang back with me," she said, looking back at the mass of walkers following them. Shane stopped for a minute and took the opportunity to fire into the crowd, dropping one that was formerly someone's grandma. The others just walked over it and kept coming.

"Yes we will," Shane spat determinedly. "I don't care if I have to carry you back to that goddamn farm house. We're gonna make it. Not shut your mouth and quit wasting breath."

She realized that he was more than likely right about wasting her breath. She handed him her pistol—he was a better shot than she—and kept going. Behind her, she could hear them firing off shots, heard them counting down as they used their bullets. Otis was gasping, she was limping, and Shane was stubbornly staying with them. As they approached the school bus, Shane pulled her arm harder, forcing her ahead of him. She kept limping on, not realizing until a moment later that they weren't still with her.

"I'm sorry," she heard Shane whisper before a gunshot tore through the night. Instinctively, she flinched as Otis dropped to the ground, screaming in pain and clutching at his leg. She watched as Shane clawed at the pack on his back and tried to pull it off of him as Otis fought back. The larger man held onto Shane, pulling at him until the former police officer was on the ground next to him. Shane kicked at him, desperately trying to get the larger man to let go of him. He was still kicking and pulling at the pack when Otis took a handful of his hair and began pulling, refusing to let go.

She stood there for a moment, horrified, before she realized what she had to do. As quickly as she was able, she made her way to where the two men were wrestling—walkers still approaching—snatched up Shane's shotgun from where it had fallen, and brought it down on Otis's temple. He immediately let go of the other man and lay there limply on the pavement, eyes closed. Without him struggling, it was easy to snatch the pack off of his back. Shane grabbed her hand and pulled him after her as the crowd of walkers fell upon Otis. She was a surgical nurse, so she could honestly say that blood and gore didn't bother her. What bothered her was the sound of the wet smacking as they gnawed on him, and the sounds of the flesh tearing. What bothered her most, though, was when she heard him scream.

"No," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. "No, I hit him…"

"There's nothing you can do for him now. Let's go," Shane said. She nodded and continued after him, fighting to keep herself from retching. They made it around the bus and back to the side of the school to where the truck was parked without running into any more walkers. Apparently, they heard about the buffet on the blacktop. Even when they reached the truck, she could still hear Otis's screaming. She wondered how it was still possible.

"Where are we going?" she asked as she slipped into the truck. It didn't matter that the man in the truck with her had just sacrificed someone else to save them. Well, it did matter, but it didn't make her fear for her safety; she was of potential use to him, and that meant she was safe for the moment.

"There's a farm a little ways up the road," he answered tersely. Silence fell over the truck until she finally spoke again thirty minutes later.

"That was a dick move you pulled back there."

"You'd be dead if I hadn't. I've got people relying on me—"

"I'm not saying that it wasn't necessary, and I'm not saying that I wouldn't have done the same thing…don't really know if I like what that says about me…but that's life nowadays."

"You gonna rat me out?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the road. She could see the tension in his body—his neck and shoulders tight, his fingers with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel—and wondered just what type of man she'd run off with.

"No," she said quietly. "Because whether I like it or not, I helped you. I bashed him in the head with a shotgun, which makes me just as guilty. So it looks like we're in this together."

He breathed a sigh of relief, and she started to wonder what he would have done if she'd said anything different. Did his loyalty to the kid—Carl—outweigh his fear of reprisal for what he did to the other man? She decided not to probe that question too far, because she might not like the answer that she found.

"Well then, I oughta know your name, don't you think?" Shane asked, his voice oddly quiet and to intense for the relief that he should be feeling.

"Quinn," she answered, extending her hand. "Quinn Donoghue."

"Shane Walsh."

His larger, calloused hand closed around her petite, bony hand. It felt so fragile against his work-roughed hands, and yet, he remembered the strength in those hands as she'd brought the shotgun down on Otis's skull. There was nothing fragile about this woman; not when she'd managed to survive for God only knows how long in that FEMA trailer hooked up to an IV line. No, not very fragile at all, he figured.

And he couldn't but wonder what the hell he had just gotten himself into.


	2. Keeping it Straight

**Author's Note: Thank you so, so much to all of you that read and reviewed! You're fantastic and the minute that I have internet for more than ten minutes at a time, I will be responding to all your reviews! I'll try to update as frequently as possible (hopefully at least once a week), but sometimes life happens. I'm trying, I promise. Thanks for the support, and please review!**

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><p>They rode in silence for a long time, both of them keeping a sharp eye out for anything out of the ordinary along the sides of the road. The truck was both noisy and had lights on it—two surefire ways to attract walkers—but nothing happened. Neither one of them spoke, neither one wanting to break the spell of accepting that they would sooner or later have to come back to reality—a reality that wasn't ideal. A reality where they both had helped to take a man's life in one of the most brutal, horrible ways possible.<p>

"We're gonna need a story to tell," Quinn finally said, forcing her raspy voice over the loud humming and clanking of the truck. She didn't figure that it was a subject that Shane would be too keen on discussing, but it had to be done. If she was going to walk into a new situation, with people that she didn't know, she needed to have a strategy for doing so—and that strategy sure as hell didn't involve telling them the truth about what had happened. Admitting to sacrificing someone to a horde of hungry walkers in order to save her own ass was not in the game plan.

Of course, she liked to think that it was more about saving the child than it had been about saving herself. Her gut was telling her that Shane had been thinking more about the child than his own ass, but she didn't know him well enough to make that determination. Thought the way the had talking about his son—and the fact that the child was his son—led her to think that it had all been about saving the boy. Either way, she didn't want to tell anything that she had tried to bludgeon a man to death. It didn't really paint the most flattering picture.

"We'll have to make sure we've got our stories straight," she said when Shane didn't answer. He continued to stare ahead, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. "Fine, well, since you're not gonna answer, I'll tell you what I'm gonna say. I'll tell them that he was bringing up the rear, and that he tripped and fell. He couldn't get up in time, and he got bit."

"No." The words were quiet but forceful, and the tone in his voice left no room for argument.

"What?" she asked, when she managed to get a word out of her mouth. Her throat was dry and she fought to keep from coughing each time she spoke.

"We can't tell them that. We'll tell them that Otis was covering us—you know, giving us cover with his gun—"

"I know what you mean."

"We'll tell them that he told us to go ahead. He told us to go, and that he would stay behind to cover us."

"Okay," Quinn said, running with what he was saying. "What else? Where were we?"

"On the football field," Shane answered. "We should keep it as close to what happened as we can."

"We can do that. We say that he stayed to give us cover, and the walkers surrounded him. He got outnumbered and couldn't get away. He wanted us to make it so that we could save the kid."

Shane just nodded and stared ahead, still clinging tightly to the steering wheel. She found herself slightly alarmed at his lack of response to her insistence that they get their stories straight. Perhaps he was in shock at what had happened—at his own actions. Maybe he was still processing the whole situation—which was a legitimate excuse, she would admit. Maybe he was just the silent type. Either way, she found herself thinking that she would feel a hell of a lot better if he would just talk to her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. She couldn't help but notice that he hands were shaking as they gripped the wheel. "You're having an adrenaline rush right now, that's why you're hands are shaking. I'd bet my life savings—if it was worth anything—that the minute you stop driving this truck and you actually stop for a minute, you're going to pass out and sleep for a good ten hours. I'm going to do the same thing."

"Look, I know you're trying to make sure I'm not in shock or whatever, but can you please…not talk right now. I need a minute," Shane asked, his voice much more quiet than she had expected. It wasn't the ideal response, but at least it was an answer.

"Yeah."

They fell into silence for the rest of the ride. It wasn't until they pulled up in front of a farmhouse—one that was lit up like a damn Christmas tree—that Shane spoke again. Even then, it wasn't to her. A crowd of people came rushing out as they pulled up. Shane stepped out of the car, Quinn slowly following, and she watched one by one as they realized that Otis wasn't coming.

"Otis said he would cover us," Shane whispered to one of them men who had come forward. "He said he would cover us, but when I looked back…"

The other man gripped Shane's shoulder tight, trying to comfort him. "He wanted to make things right," he told Shane.

"Make things right?" Quinn asked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Otis was the one who…he accidentally shot Carl," Shane filled in for her, his voice quiet and distant. Quinn took a moment to take things in, to think of the way that Shane had worked with him to save his son, the way that he had trusted the man who had accidentally shot his son, and she felt her respect for him building.

"I'm Quinn Donoghue," she told Rick, holding out her bony hand. She had to give him credit, the man didn't flinch at her disgusting appearance. "Shane said you could use a surgical nurse."

The man's eyes widened in surprise. "Y-yeah. I'm Rick Grimes. My son was shot, and…let's get you inside so you can talk to Hershel."

"Your son?" she asked, her eyebrows raised as she glanced at Shane, who was pointedly staring at the ground in front of him.

"Yeah. His name's—"

"Carl. Yeah, Shane was telling me about him. Let's get inside and see what your doctor and I can do for him."

Shane watched as they showed her inside, Rick keeping a supportive arm around her tiny waist as though he were afraid she would collapse. Of course, with as tiny and emaciated as she was, he was surprised it hadn't happened yet. He couldn't bring himself to move yet, and stayed there leaning against the truck. Time slowed to crawl as he watched through a window as Quinn and Hershel were standing over Carl, poking and prodding and stabbing at him, coming away with red hands. He fought nausea at the thought of all of it being for naught as he watched Rick and Lori pace on the front porch.

"He seems to have stabilized," Hershel announced to them as he came out of the house. All of them breathed a sigh of relief, Lori wrapping her arms around her husband tightly.

"Shane, Maggie has clothes for you inside," Hershel told him. Shane nodded and slipped inside, unable to watch Lori and Rick any longer. He only hoped that his face wasn't showing his feelings.

"Here," Maggie said, thrusting clothes into his hands. "They won't fit well. They were Otis's. There's a bathroom upstairs you can use. Quinn's in it now."

Shane nodded and headed upstairs, fully intending to wait outside the bathroom for Quinn to be done. As he stood outside the door, he realized how tired he was. The weight that had been on his shoulders was lifted, and he was nearly weak with the relief. Carl was going to be okay, and that's all he could think about. Thinking about that, even Lori and Rick's display on the front porch was bearable. Carl was going to be okay.

Suddenly, he heard a loud bang from inside the bathroom followed closely by loud and very fluent swearing in Quinn's low, raspy voice. He didn't hesitate; instead, he pushed the door open without a second thought and rushed into the bathroom. Inside, he found Quinn lying on her back on the floor—naked as a jaybird—her bum ankle caught on the side of the bathtub.

"I tripped," she rasped. "Body doesn't really want to cooperate with me."

"Are you okay?" he asked, slipping his hands under her damp shoulders and pulling her up off the floor. She leaned heavily on him as he helped her sit on the stool in front of the mirror.

"Yeah, I'm fine. My body just decided that it was done cooperating with me for now. I guess I'm lucky it didn't happen before now. Adrenaline was the only thing getting me through our little adventure at the school, and it's worn off now. Can you hand me that shirt?"

He nodded silently and handed her the thin cotton shirt that was sitting on top of the toilet. She slipped it on, not bothering with the bra Maggie had provided because it never would have fit her, even before she went on her starvation diet. He handed her the pants and she slipped them over her narrow, bony hips without unbuttoning them. Only as she was getting dressed did he notice the scratches around her ankles.

"What happened to your ankles?"

"Otis," she answered quietly, knowing that was the only answer he needed. "He left his mark on you, too."

"What?" He turned to the mirror and caught sight of his hair. For a long moment, he stared at his scalp, noticing the large chunk of hair that was missing. He remembered the way that Otis had wrapped his hands in his hair and pulled; Otis must have taken some hair with him when he started pulling. Shane ran his hands over his head, trying to comb his hair over the bald spot. No matter how many times or how many waves, he moved his hair, it didn't cover the mark.

As he came to the realization, he breathing sped up and started coming in short, shallow pants. His heart started racing and his chest felt tight as he tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears. Immediately, he pulled open the cabinet and began searching the shelves. When he was unsuccessful, he pulled open the drawers nearby and began to go through them until he found what he sought. By the time he found the electric razor, his hands were shaking too badly for him to hold it very well.

He turned on the razor, and the electric buzzing rang loud and clear in Quinn's ears. The razor was shaking in his hands, shaking far too much for it to he safe for him to use. As he brought his hand to his scalp, Quinn stared in horror—knowing that he was going to butcher himself if he continued on like he was. Before he could hurt himself, Quinn pulled herself off the floor and took the razor from Shane.

"Here," she whispered gently. "Let me."

He nodded silently and gripped the edge of the sink as she ran the blade across his scalp, leaving clumps of dark hair in the sink. Even as she shaved his head, she leaned against him—trying to hold herself up. One hand held the razor, the other rested on his shoulder to help her balance. As time slipped past, he felt her hand slip from his shoulder down to the small of his back. He didn't object.

"What'll they say?" he asked, studying himself in the mirror.

"They'll probably chalk it up to the traumatic experience of losing Otis. If they ask, just bow your head and tell them that you can't talk about it."

He nodded and got into the shower. Quinn took the moment to slip away into one of the upstairs bedrooms. She could tell from the looks of them that some of them were inhabited and she kept walking on. When she reached one—the back one, the farthest from the stairs, she dropped her boots and slid beneath the sheets and quickly into slumber.

When she awoke, she heard the rest of the house moving about downstairs. Her body groaned with the exertion of getting out of bed, but she pushed herself to do it anyway. Downstairs, she found Lori and Rick standing on the porch, watching as a caravan of miscellaneous vehicles pulled into Herschel's driveway, including a giant Winnebago. Hershel and his daughter—Maggie, she remembered—stood outside as well, eyeing the approaching vehicles with something that Quinn wasn't sure she liked.

"Who's that?" she asked, pushing open the front door.

"That's the rest of our group," Rick answered, a smile spreading across his face. Beside him, Lori stared at her.

"I'm surprised you're out of bed, Miss Donoghue," Hershel said before Lori could say anything. "You were exhausted when you arrived. Shane told us your story. You should be in bed, resting."

Her aching, tired body completely agreed with Hershel. "I know. I'll probably be back there before I'm ready, but for now I wanted to get up and see what I could do."

"We're having a memorial service for Otis," Maggie answered, her voice clipped and slightly too sharp. "Over there, under the trees."

Quinn just nodded silently, not saying another word as she was introduced to the rest of the newcomers. A young Asian man—Glenn, which was probably the least Asian name ever—an older man named Dale, a guy in his early to mid-thirties carrying a crossbow, and elderly gentleman sporting a white beard that reminded her of a summer Santa Claus—Dale, his name was—and two women, a younger blonde and an older, gray-haired woman. All of them took in Quinn with horror in their eyes.

Shane rounded the corner of the house—clad in oversized shirt and overalls—just in time for Rick to give them all their marching orders. They were all to attend Otis's service before they started their search for a missing girl—Sophia. Quinn frowned and looked to Shane for explanation, but he was too busy staring elsewhere to notice. She followed his gaze to see that he was studying Lori intently. Quinn tried not to think of the implications of that, and instead focused on watching the others gather rocks for the memorial service.

Now, it had been a long time since she'd been in church, but even so, the service was a comfort. Even before the dead started walking and biting and being generally unruly, she had been absent from church for a long time. It wasn't necessarily out of disbelief or disrespect; it was just hard to make the time when she was spending more time at the hospital than anyone had any business being there. And yes, she remembered her mother's words—"If it's really important, you'll make time"—but it hadn't been like she hadn't prayed.

When she had first found herself trapped in that FEMA trailer, she had prayed. She had prayed for a miracle—that someone would come and rescue her. After finally giving up hope on her miracle, she had begun to pray that death would come swiftly and painlessly, and not in the form of walkers busting through her front door. After Jonathan had left her, she had prayed for death so that she wouldn't have to be all alone. And, ironically, when she had prayed for death—even though she had felt fairly certain that no one upstairs was listening—they had sent her a miracle. Her miracle—in the form of a well-muscled cop and an overweight farmhand—came busting through the door as she was beginning to give up.

As Hershel said his prayers and read from the Bible, Quinn wished that she felt a sense of peace in her—the kind she had felt for that brief moment when Shane and Otis had come into that trailer—but that peace never came. Instead, she felt nausea pulling at her stomach and pain tearing through her skull. She had a headache and her ankle was threatening to get temperamental. Without thinking about it, she leaned on Shane; he tensed against her and she pulled away.

"Shane, would you say a few words? You were with Otis…at the end," one of Hershel's crew asked. Quinn was sure that someone had introduced her to the woman, but she couldn't remember her name.

Shane shook his head. "I-I can't ma'am. I'm sor—"

"Shane, you were there. I need to hear that his death wasn't for nothin'. I need to know that it meant something—"

"Otis was determined," Quinn announced quietly. Everyone stopped and looked at her, though she only noticed the grateful look in Shane's eyes. "Otis was determined that those supplies were going to make it back here. He was pretty determined that he was going to come back, too, but sometimes things don't always work out like we want them to. He pulled me and Shane through when we were ready to give up, and he saved us both more than once. He died saving us; he died so that we could live, so that little boy could live. Otis died with the peace of knowing that he was making a difference in the world."

There were tears in the woman's eyes as Quinn spoke; she leaned heavily Maggie, covering her blotchy, tear-stained face in Maggie's shirtfront as she tried to hide her tears. Quinn eyed Shane and noticed the way he was staring at the ground, not looking at her or anyone else. She wondered how he was holding up and how much longer it could last. Right now, she was betting that he wasn't going to last very long, and the thought worried her. She needed him to hold out so that she wouldn't find herself being attacked by the rest of the group when they found out that she had played a role in noble Otis's death. She only hoped that his sense of self-preservation was good enough to kick in and get him to keep his mouth shut.

After the service, they split into groups and went about working on the farm. Quinn, who was still too weak to work on the farm, was escorted back upstairs by Shane.

"Thanks," he whispered as he helped her up the stairs. "Thanks for covering for me back there."

"You're welcome. Just remember that your ass isn't the only one that's on the line, okay? I get the feeling that there's more going on in this camp—and with you—than I know. I'm going to need all the details so that I can fit in. Do you think you can manage that for me?" she asked.

"Not right now I can't. We've got a missing kid and walking wounded to tend."

"Later then. Later tonight?"

"You've got it. Tonight, I'll tell you whatever the hell it is that you want to know."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wondered if he was going to regret them. After all, there were some things he didn't even want to admit to himself, never mind another person.


	3. Inappropriate Dinner Conversation

**Author's Note: **Thanks so, so, so, so much for the reviews! The support I've gotten for this story has been amazing, and y'all are totally wonderful. I wish all of you cookies and general goodness! Here's another chapter, and I hope you enjoy it as well!

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><p>When she awoke, night had fallen on the grounds of the farm. She nervously looked out the window, just waiting to see a walker come shambling out the woods, but none came. It struck her as odd that the house was lit up like a Christmas tree and somehow not a single walker had managed to stumble on to the house. But then, she though, it was a break, and she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. She had been in a high-stress situation for too long, and now she was going to take the opportunity to relax. Well, comparatively speaking, it was relaxing. It was better than being in that damn trailer again.<p>

Downstairs, she hear people talking quietly. Pulling on her boots, she slowly dragged herself down the stairs and found the others standing in the kitchen around a tray of meat. When she entered the kitchen, they all fell silent, staring at her.

"Don't stop on my account," she said quietly.

Lori pulled a chair out from the table and helped usher Quinn into it. The others resumed speaking quietly amongst themselves as she sat there. The short, grey-haired woman came over to her and gently tapped her on the shoulder. The sudden contact made her jump.

"Would you like something to eat?" the woman asked quietly.

"I'll get it in a minute," Quinn answered, rising from her chair.

"No, don't move. I'll get it," the woman insisted.

"Just a small plate would be good. Too much will make me sick," Quinn said, realizing that the woman was not going to back down. She nodded and quickly walked away.

"It's better to just let her help out," a rough, male voice said form behind her. He came around the side of the table to sit beside her. "Her daughter's missing, so it's just best to let her be distracted."

Quinn was silent, trying to imagine what it would be like to lose a child. Before the world got shot to hell, she had thought of having children when she finally settled down. Now she was gland that she hadn't had the chance to do so. To know that joy and then to lose it—it was a feeling she couldn't fathom, and was glad she couldn't.

"I'm Quinn Donaghue."

"Daryl Dixon."

"You had the crossbow."

"Yeah, that's me. That's Carol getting your food, and T-Dog's coming on over the join us. I think you met everyone else."

Carol set the plate on the table before her. Quinn nodded in thanks and began to take small bites of her meal. She didn't bother to ask what it was, deciding that she was probably better off not knowing. Carol and Daryl just looked on as she ate, and she began to feel heat rise in her cheeks.

"What did I miss while I was catching up on my beauty sleep?" Quinn asked.

"Found a walker in one of the wells," Daryl replied.

"What did you do about it?"

"Well, we tried to pull it out the well," Dale answered, the older gentleman coming up to sit on her other side. "It didn't go according to plan."

"What do you mean?"

"Walker almost bit Glenn when he had to go down in the well and rope it, and then it spilled its guts in the well," Dale explained, glossing over the gorier details. Quinn looked down at the mean in front of her and the glass of water beside her plate. "Don't worry, the water's from a different well."

"Did you check this well?" Her voice came out sharper than she had intended it to.

"Yes, young lady, we did."

"Did we check all the wells?"

"We didn't get to the ones at the outer edges of the property, but Hershel said we're not using those anyway."

"We should check the others tomorrow," Quinn said quietly. "After the sun comes up."

The others nodded in agreement, and then the table feel into silence, most of them watching her eat again. It seemed like it took her an eternity to eat, though she knew practically speaking, that her plate really wasn't all that full. Perhaps it was the audience that was making her a wee bit nervous. When she finished, Carol rose to get her another plate before Quinn stopped her.

"I'll get more later. It'll be better for me to eat more small meals." Carol nodded and took her plate to the sink. Rick and Lori migrated to the table, Shane closely following until everyone was packed in around the table.

"How's that ankle?" Rick asked politely.

"It's still there," Quinn said lightly. "I'll wrap it up and hopefully it'll be functional."

"Shane says you were a surgical nurse?" Lori asked.

"Yeah. When I was younger and less wise than I am now, I thought I wanted to do OB or pediatrics, but I did sometime in a children's hospital and it was…It was too much. So I bounced around a little bit before I did some time in surgical nursing, and I loved it."

"Were you in the hospital when the first outbreak hit?" Shane had been so quiet that his voice took her by surprise. So did the question.

The question brought memories flooding through her mind. She remembered being in the operating room, working on a shotgun blast to the abdomen. Her gloved hands were bright red, blood splattered on the front of her scrubs. Another nurse stood at the head of bed, monitoring the victim's vital signs. The man had crashed several times on the way in, and was in the middle of yet another code. She remembered the way that his eyes opened slowly with glazed-over look about them, and she remembered calling for more anesthesia to get him back under. She remembered him taking a chunk out of the nearest nurse's hand.

"Yeah, I was there."

"They were shooting people in the hospitals. How the hell did you get out?"

"I ran," she whispered, staring down at the table so that she wouldn't have to look at anyone else. "I locked myself into one of the drug lockers until they cleared out and then I ran like hell."

Everyone in the room stared at her for a long time as she continued to stare at the table; the moment turned more uncomfortable as a long, awkward silence filled the room. She didn't raise her head, not wanting to see the judgmental looks that she knew she was going to find staring back at her. But then she felt a deep flash of anger in her gut as she reminded herself for what must have been the hundredth time that if she hadn't run, she would be dead. She wouldn't even be a martyr, because a martyr was only a casualty with good PR, and those systems were long since dead. Not that martyrdom was high on her priority list, anyway.

"I'd be dead if I hadn't run," she said, her words tumbling awkwardly out to fill the silence. "I would be just as dead as the rest of them. How does getting myself killed help any of those people?"

Quinn finally raised her head and looked at the people her; as she looked, she noticed a trend. Some of them were horrified by her actions—Lori, Daryl, Rick, Carol—and others looked as though they pitied her for having to make that decision—Dale, Andrea, T-Dog. Only two people showed any glimmer of understanding: Shane and Hershel. Shane she understood; Hershel was still a mystery.

"How'd you wind up in a FEMA trailer?" Daryl asked—stating what everyone else was thinking.

"I knew FEMA was in the area. I'm a nurse and I had seen what we were dealing with. I though I would be able to help. I was only there for a few hours before we got overrun."

She stared back at the table, desperately hoping that they would let her off the hook, that they wouldn't ask any more questions that she wasn't ready to answer. She was tired of talking already, tired of feeling judged, and tired of feeling like she had to justify her actions to them. It was hard enough justifying them to herself. She didn't want to try to make them understand that she desperately wanted to _live, _even if it was spent walking on pins and needles.

"You look exhausted. You'd think you hadn't slept a wink," Shane said lightly.

She took the out that he was giving her and held on to it fiercely. "I could sleep for a week and still be exhausted. But I'm hoping that I'll be more helpful tomorrow."

"We're gonna be looking for Sophia. With that ankle—"

"I'm not much good tramping through the woods. I know," she finished for him. "But I'm sure that there's something I could be doing around here. I'm sure Hershel can find a way for me to be useful." Hershel nodded. "And if you need the room, I can move out of it."

"We don't need it right now," Hershel told her in his slow drawl. "But we may at a later time."

She nodded. "That's fin—" A wave of nausea interrupted her and she was barely able to get the next words out her mouth. "Bathroom! Bathroom?"

Lori and Carol quickly led her to the nearest bathroom off of a nearby hallway. As soon as the door was open, Quinn was on her knees in front of the toilet, waiting for her dinner to come back up. She waited, but it never happened, though the nausea remained.

"Are you alright?" Lori asked, concern in her voice.

"My body's readjusting to eating again. I don't think it really likes food too much at this point, but as long as it stays down I should be okay."

"Do you want to go lie back down?" Carol piped up shyly from behind Lori.

Quinn nodded and the motion made her more nauseous. "That's probably a good idea."

She pushed herself to her feet and slowly made her way to the stairs. At the bottom, she sat down for a minute, realizing that the staircase was a lot taller than she had initially remembered it being. In the kitchen, Lori and Carol told the others that she was returning to bed, and the others were agreeing with her. The sound of heavy boots on the wooden floor rang though the hallway as the people dispersed, some slipping outside to sleep in the tents or the Winnebago. She saw Rick and Lori slip away in the bedroom next to where Carl was sleeping.

"You need some help?"

She didn't have to look up to know who was speaking to her. Even if she hadn't heard his voice, she had recognized Shane's heavy, clunky boots on the floor in front of her.

"That'd be good. Ankle doesn't seem to like me very much right now."

He slipped one arm around her shoulders and the other behind her knees, intending to carry her bridal style until she made the faintest noise of objection. Confused, he waited for her to clarify, but she never did. This time, he put an arm around her waist and let her walk up the stairs alongside him. It was slower than carrying her would have been, but she seemed more content that way, and hell, he wasn't the one who was nauseous, so who was he to argue? When he finally set her down on her bed, she looked paler than she had when he found her in the FEMA trailer.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah…yeah, I'll be fine. Thank you, for your help," she said quietly.

"Well, I brought you here. Seems only right I make sure you're taken care of."

She closed her eyes for a minute, and when she opened them, she found that Shane was still sitting on the edge of the bed. She raised an eyebrow, letting her expression ask the question.

"You wanted answers. Now seems as good a time as any to give them to you," he explained. She didn't have to be told twice.

"Why did you tell me that Carl was your son?"

Shane sighed, though he had known that question was coming. Still, explaining it suddenly seemed to take more energy than he had.

"Rick is my best friend; we grew up together. We were cops back home in our town, and before the walkers…Rick got shot. He was in a coma, and he wasn't showing any signs of waking up. Someone had to take care of Lori and Carl. Lori was…she was holding it together, but they needed someone. She needed someone she could talk to about him, and that was me. Then when everything got all shot to hell, I went back to the hospital for him. The machines…stopped working and I listened to his chest, but I didn't hear anything. I couldn't hear anything, not a damn thing…"

He was talking more to himself than her, she knew, but it didn't stop her from reaching out and touching his hand. He jumped, as though that one, tiny gesture had jolted him from whatever world he had been in. When he didn't pull away from her touch, she left her hand on his.

"So I left him. God help me, I left him there. I told Lori he was dead, and we got the hell outta town. Packed up the car and went. And while Carl was awake, she held it together, but he'd fall asleep and all she did was talk about Rick. She'd talk about these stupid little things he used to do, or tell a funny story about him…she needed someone to talk to about her husband, someone that knew him, too, you know? We were wandering into the world with strangers, but we both knew Rick, and that—"

"Kept you together," she finished for him.

"And then when we met the others on the road, we were like our own smaller family. Me and Lori and Carl. We were a family, and since Rick wasn't there, I had to keep them safe. That was my job. That's what he'd want me to do…"

"Did you sleep with Lori?" she asked quietly, no judgment in her voice.

He nodded, not bothering to hide what she had clearly picked up on. "And then he was back. Glenn came back from a trip into Atlanta, and Rick was with him. And they were a family again…and there's no room for me in the inn," he finished with a bitter lilt in his voice.

She rolled closer to him on the bed, her side resting against his thigh. "You fell in love with her," she whispered, realization hitting her. "Why did you tell me that? I mean, you could have just lied to me."

"You know about Otis. I figure if you haven't told anyone about that, you're not gonna tell about this, either. Besides, secrets get awful heavy when you carry 'em too long," he said.

He sighed, and she realized how profoundly tired he looked. It wasn't just in his face or his words; it was in his whole body. His exhaustion showed in the defeated slump of his shoulders, and the turned-down corners of his mouth. It was in the way that he sighed and the way that he answered her questions. He was dog tired.

"You know, you could stay," Quinn told him, her voice soft. "Bed's a hell of a lot more comfortable than a tent."

He studied at her, trying to figure out what she was saying to him. Before he could say anything, she continued.

"I'm not asking you to sleep with me—I mean, have sex with me. I'm just saying that you'd sleep better on a mattress, and there's plenty of room for two in here."

He squeezed her hand, appreciative of the offer. "Maybe another night. I can't leave the others outside."

"Another night then."

He took her hand and squeezed it gently before standing to leave. At the door, he turned back to her.

"Goodnight, Quinn. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

She smiled. "Goodnight, Shane."


	4. Sleeping Arrangements

**Author's note: **So, this chapter ran a little longer than I intended it to, but I think you'll be satisfied with the result. If not, let me know. But really, thanks for your feedback; it keeps me going. And I really will try to keep the chapters from being too long. Enjoy!

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><p>When she woke again, sunlight was streaming through the windows and a new day had dawned. Quinn pulled her boots on and splashed some water on her face before heading downstairs. Patricia was in the kitchen, but the house was otherwise silent and deserted. She quickly glanced out the window and saw the group outside, gathered around a table, looking at something. Pushing open the front door, she headed out to see the others.<p>

"Shane and I can take this part, Andrea and T-Dog will take the area next to it. Daryl—" Rick was saying.

"If I can get a horse, I'll be able to cover more ground," Daryl cut him off before he could finish. Rick just nodded. They all fell silent as Quinn approached.

"Sending out the search parties, I see," she said lightly, trying to ignore the way that their gazes were making her feel too much like a germ under a microscope. They nodded and went back to talking shop: who was going with whom, where they were going, and something about marking trees with colored flags. Since it wasn't going to apply to her, Quinn didn't really pay attention.

She knew that she should know better than that, that she would always be listening and that anything could be pertinent information, but she had been in information overload for the past day and a half, and she wasn't really up to taking in anymore—especially when she wasn't going to use it. Sitting quietly on the bench, she took a moment to take in her surroundings.

Wide, grassy fields surrounded the farmhouse, bordered by forest and fences. It brought to mind all those times that she had read _Anne of Green Gables _or _Little House on the Prairie _when she was a kid. It was idyllic and charming and all the things that the rest of the world wasn't; so naturally, she couldn't help but start to wonder what the hell was wrong with it. Her time in that FEMA trailer turned her into a glass half-empty kind of person.

"And the rest of us that aren't going?" she asked quietly when the others were finished talking.

"There's laundry to be done," Carol answered quietly.

The older woman quickly walked away from the group and back towards the tents that they had set up. The others began scattering, breaking up into their groups to go out or saying good-bye to the others. Off to the side, Shane stood quietly, watching as Lori and Rick said their goodbyes. Quinn watched for a moment, but the quiet intimacy of their embrace—the way that Rick was ever so lightly touching his wife's cheek—made her feel like an intruder and she looked away at the only other person that she could think to look at: Shane.

He caught her looking at him and she quickly glanced away—down at the ground, at her ankle, at the bark on a nearby tree that was suddenly oh so very interesting. She felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she remembered the way that he had gently let her down the night before. He had a duty to the others in his group—her group now—she knew, but it didn't really help with the sting of rejection. But then, she had only been offering sleep, not sex, so perhaps she really shouldn't be looking at it as rejection at all. The whole mess was suddenly making her head hurt, though as hard as she tried not to think about it, she couldn't force the thoughts from her mind.

"You're awake." Shane's voice tore into her thoughts, completely derailing her attempt to not think about him.

"Yep. Beats the hell out of being not awake. I mean, permanently not awake," she replied, her words tumbling awkwardly from her lips.

"I'm going out the with Rick," he told her quietly. "We're looking for Sophia."

"I heard. Carol seems to be alright."

"She is now, anyway. I don't know how okay she's going to be if we come back without Sophia. She's barely been holding it together as it is. Keeps organizing everything."

"Well, maybe that's not such a bad thing. I mean, organization is good. At least we'll know where to find everything," Quinn answered, feeling like an awkward thirteen year old again.

Shane grinned. "Or you end up with everything so organized that you can't find a damn thing. That's always how it works for me. I used to have the most cluttered desk; papers everywhere, pencils all over the place…Rick would give me such a hard time about it, and eventually I would always decide to clean it. And then after I cleaned the damn thing, I couldn't find anything. Not a thing."

"Well…let's hope you never organize our arsenal," she joked quietly.

She had expected a laugh in response, but it never came. Instead, he looked down at the gun in his hands, his brow furrowed in an expression she couldn't quite identify. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the gun tighter, as though determined not to let it go. The reaction was discomfiting—one that didn't maker he any less nervous about watching the others go.

"Hershel doesn't want guns on his farm," Shane finally answered.

"What? This place is too exposed for us not to have an arsenal on hand."

"Well Rick says that while we're here, we play by Hershel's rules."

"He's going to leave us here—with his wife and son—without any weapons?" She couldn't keep the disbelief and disdain out of her voice. It wasn't reasonable, and it wasn't practical. It was a damn good way to get all of them killed, she thought.

"Not without weapons. Without guns," Shane countered. "Don't think that guns are your only option when it comes to weapons. A heavy club or a blade will work just as well."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but my arms aren't exactly in pro baseball shape. I doubt I could swing anything with enough force to damage the skull, never mind destroy the brain."

The image of her bringing his shotgun down on the side of Otis's head flashed vividly through his mind. One look at her pale face told him that she was thinking the exact same thing; her hands fisted in her lap, and her face paled, but that was the only sign that anything was wrong. He squeezed her shoulder quickly.

"Find something you can use as a weapon and keep it close by at all times. Dale is gonna be on the lookout, but you never know. Sometimes, shit happens."

"You mean like the world?" she asked lightly, trying to push away the memories of Otis screaming on the high school athletic fields.

"Keep that thing close and be ready to use it. Got it?" he said, his voice far too serious for her liking. How had a light-hearted conversation turned so serious, she wondered, staring at his face. His jaw was clenched tight, his mouth set in a thin, firm line; so, so serious.

"Yeah."

Shane turned on his heel and strode towards where Rick was waiting for him; off to the side, Lori and Carol were watching them. Dale was looking on from his perch on top of the RV. As soon as Shane and Rick were gone, the women looked to get to work, starting on laundry that needed to be done.

"I'm going to grab a bite to eat and I'll be back out," Quinn said, excusing herself from the chore. It wasn't that she didn't want to do it—not that laundry was her favorite thing to do—but her stomach was growling and she knew that she needed to get something in her system. She grabbed some cold meat from the fridge and took small, slow bites until it was all gone. In a few minutes, she knew that the nausea from the previous night may return, but until it did, she had work to do.

No one else seemed to be in the house—not that she would see, anyway. Taking care to be as quiet as possible, Quinn started a search through the whole house, looking for anything and everything that could be used as a weapon. There were no baseball bats or golf clubs, something she found amazing. Unless she wanted to saw the leg off a table, it didn't seem like she was going to find anything of use inside the house.

"What are you doing?"

Quinn jumped at the sound of the voice. She turned around to see Maggie standing behind her in the doorway of the bedroom, her hands on her hips and completely ready for confrontation.

"We were going to do laundry. I was just looking to make sure we hadn't missed any," she said quietly, hoping that Maggie bought the lie. She said a silent prayer that she had been caught in Rick and Lori's room and not Hershel's. There's no way she would have been able to explain being caught in there—not realistically, anyway.

"I think they got it all," the other woman replied shortly.

Quinn smiled. "I guess they do." She left the room quickly and quietly, not daring to say anything further to Maggie, not when the girl looked ready to knock her head from her shoulders—without any sort of club or sharp implement. As she walked down the hallway for the first time, she noticed the pictures on the walls—family portraits of Hershel and Maggie standing on the front porch with an older woman. Beside them in the photo were several young men and women—all bearing a similar family resemblance.

"Who's that in the picture?" Quinn asked, trying her best to use the sensitive voice that she usually reserved for talking to patient's families.

Maggie didn't answer. Instead, she gave her another look that said she would be just as comfortable shooting her as she would be talking to her. Her lack of answer said all the things that no answer would ever tell her. It said that whatever had happened to her mother and siblings—for they could be nothing else—had not been pretty. Despite the fact that Maggie looked like she wanted to knock her block off, Quinn couldn't help but feel bad for her.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she whispered, pushing past Maggie and out the front door. She didn't stop to look back, knowing that the other woman wouldn't be following her. Lori and Carol stared at her, but didn't say anything as she walked to where they were standing, scrubbing at the laundry. She looked around for a weapon, but found only sticks and some small rocks, none of which were going to do enough damage to the skull to destroy the brain. Then she saw the barn.

"Where are you going?" Dale called after her as he watched her walk towards the barn.

"I want some kind of weapon; don't like the way it feels without one, and I can guaran-damn-tee that there's something I can use in that barn."

"Hershel's already said that the barn's off limits," Dale told her quietly.

"Is that why y'all are sleeping out here in tents?" she asked. Dale nodded. "That's ridiculous. You're open to attack while the rest of us are sitting pretty in the house."

"We've had someone on watch each night. We're managing, and so far we haven't had any problems. It's best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If you really feel like you need a weapon, I'm sure we can find something in the RV," Dale said reasonably. She didn't like it, but she sure as hell wasn't going to be the one who got everyone kicked off the farm for looking where she wasn't supposed to. After a quick rummage through the RV, she opted for a long screwdriver and a golf club. She wasn't real sure how the golf club would have made it into the RV, but she sure as hell was grateful.

After finding her weapon of choice, she settled in with Lori and Carol, washing the clothes, though she found that her arms tired more easily than she would have cared for. Glenn and Maggie stopped by long enough to tell the rest of the group that they were headed into town to see what they could find, and didn't say another word. As much as Quinn wanted to bring up what Shane had told her, she knew good and well that it was only going to spook the hell out of the others. She'd bring it up with Shane or Rick when they got back. Until then, she would keep her mouth shut.

Andrea and T-Dog get back first while Lori and Carol are planning dinner for the others. It was an idea that they both seemed to like, but Quinn knew better than go anywhere near anything that other people were going to eat. She'd done the cooking classes in high school and quickly discovered that she was far better at cutting things than she was at cooking them. So while Lori and Carol were in the kitchen doing whatever it was that they needed to get ready for dinner, she was sitting alongside the RV while Andrea and Dale perched on top of it.

Rick and Shane turned up not long after Andre and T-Dog, sweaty, tired and annoyed. As they walked up, Quinn quickly rose from her seat and approached them.

"Rick, Shane…can I have a word?" she asked, though the annoyance on their faces told her that she probably should have waited until later. Despite their annoyance, both men stopped and looked at her for a minute before nodding. Grabbing Shane's shirtsleeve, she pulled them around the corner of the house, away from the others.

"Something squirrelly is going on here," she said, her voice low. Neither man looked surprised. "Why don't you look surprised?"

"Hershel doesn't want us to have guns," Shane answered. "That right there says something's up."

"Look, this is his property. We're guests here, and we have to respect his rules," Rick told them. "I agree that he's a little…eccentric, but we're on his property."

"I'm not saying that we ought to try something crazy, or even that we ought to confront him about it. I'm just saying that we should be cautious, and that we should be organized," Quinn suggested.

"Organized how?" Rick asked.

"If Hershel doesn't want us to have guns, we ought to have other weapons, and we should know where we can find some guns…in the off chance that we need them. I know that you don't want to offend our host, and I get that. I don't wanna have to go any time soon, but let's face it…the world's gone to hell in a handbasket, and if the shit hits the fan here, we can't afford to be caught with our thumbs up our asses."

Shane nodded, clearly on board with the plan; Rick held his tongue, clearly deep in thought about the whole thing. Before he could get a word out of his mouth, there was yelling from around the corner.

"Walker! Walker!" Andrea's voice tore through the otherwise peaceful silence of the afternoon. Shane and Rick immediately took off running; Quinn didn't follow, but instead started looking around for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon. She had her choices, but if there was more than one walker, the rest of the group needed to be armed as well. Glenn streaked past her, following the guys, and she wondered when he and Maggie had gotten back.

On top of the RV, Andrea was staring down her scope at the approaching walker, taking aim as the others got closer. Just as the others were approaching, Andrea pulled the trigger and the walker dropped like a rock. Immediately, Rick and Shane started yelling, and it didn't sound like the good kind. Clambering down the from the top of the RV, Andrea ran towards the edge of the field, her expression nervous, muttering to herself the whole way. Quinn only watched—not daring to walk out there and have no energy to get back.

As they got closer, it became apparent that it was Daryl they were bringing in—Daryl that Andrea had shot. Quinn glanced back towards the house to where Hershel was waiting on the porch; once again, the two of them were more than likely going to have to work together to patch him—assuming that Andrea had missed her mark. The closer they got, the more she realized that he was going to need more help than she had initially thought.

"Let's get him inside," she ordered quietly as they brought him close enough for her to see the gash in his side and the graze on his temple.

"Don't you think we ought to ask Hershel?" Glenn asked.

"I'm not patching him up out here. There's too much that can get in those wounds and go wrong. Inside we go."

Hershel didn't object as they carried Daryl inside and put him on the same table they'd used to operate on Carl. Thankfully, Daryl was still awake and able to tell them what had happened, which was typically a good sign. He seemed woozy, but his speech wasn't affected and he knew where he was—a good sign. That meant he probably didn't have any brain damage.

"What happened?" Hershel asked slowly, looking at the small hole in Daryl's side.

"Your horse saw a snake and threw me. I fell on my arrow," Daryl said, gesturing to his side. "You saw what happened with my head. Guess it's the one time we're lucky that Andrea's a not a great shot."

"Damn right you're lucky. As it is, that shot rang your bell a bit. You've probably got a mild concussion," she told him.

Hershel cleared his throat pointedly. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that language in my house, young lady."

She bit back her sharp reply and nodded instead, going back to cleaning the wound in Daryl's head. He took the brunt of the pain well—a few muffled groans and choked curses—as she wiped the blood away and cleaned it with rubbing alcohol. Ideally, she would have used something that wasn't going to hurt as much—especially while Hershel was working on his side—but they had all long since learned to start using what they had.

"You'll be better off without stitches in this wound," Hershel said quietly. "We'll pack it with some bandages and keep it wrapped up."

Daryl tried to nod, but then realized what a bad idea it was. Quinn grabbed a trashcan and set it beside his head.

"If you're gonna puke, do it in the bucket."

"Your bedside manner is pretty lacking," Daryl said snidely.

"Hey, most of my patients were unconscious. It wasn't a skill I needed, okay," she answered, playfully defensive. "Besides, if you hadn't gotten yourself all stabbed, we wouldn't have the problem. Now, you're set."

"We don't have any bedrooms left," Hershel told her.

"I'll move outside and he can take my room until he's ready to move back out to the tents."

"Fair enough." Hershel's words were short and clipped, sounding all the more awkward for the slow-speaking southerner. His mouth was set in a firm, determined line, his jaw clenched tightly. She couldn't be sure if he was angry at her or at the situation in general, but with the way that things were going, she decided that she was probably better off not asking him who pissed in his corn flakes.

Carol stuck her head in the door and said, "Dinner's ready. Come and get it." After seeing Daryl laid up in the bed, she corrected herself. "I'll bring you some."

Quinn quickly left the room before Hershel could say anything else to her. During dinner, she forced herself into the seat beside Shane and tried not to laugh at Glenn's stilted attempt at dinner conversation. Her social skills had never exactly been what she would call stellar, but they'd all but gone out the window since the dead started walking.

After dinner, Quinn stepped outside, trying to figure out what the sleeping arrangements were going to be. Everyone seemed to have an established pattern, and she didn't feel like she knew anyone well enough to ask if she could crash in their tent. After all, she wouldn't react well if a near-stranger asked to sleep with her.

"What are you doing?"

She jumped at the sound of Shane's voice, and then laughed at her own foolishness. Shane chuckled as well, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. For the first time since she had seen him, he was smiling. It wasn't a big smile—not one of those movie star, mega-watt, charming kind of smiles—but one of those smiles that was natural and all the better for being so.

"I'm trying to figure out where I'm sleeping tonight. Do you think Andrea would let me crash in her tent?"

"You're not sleeping inside?"

"Hershel said that he didn't have the space for both me and Daryl, so Daryl's taking my bedroom. Poor guy probably has a mild concussion; I can't make him sleep outside. Even I'm not that cruel," she replied lightly.

"Do you have a sleeping bag?"

"What?"

"Do you have a sleeping bag?" he repeated, slowly this time, as if speaking to a child, though the smile on his face was enough to tell her that he was joking.

"Oh yeah, I brought one with me from our hellish adventure at the FEMA sight. No, I don't have a sleeping bag."

"Then sleeping on the ground is gonna be damn uncomfortable. I've got a couple cot mattresses if you want to stay with me," he offered. He looked almost nervous as he waited for her answer, and that's when she realized that he was a little bit nervous.

"Are you asking me to sleep with you?"

Shane Walsh had experience with women; he had more than enough experience with women to know that he was in a bad place in this conversation right now. Generally, he wasn't the type to charm a woman into his bed. Instead, he flashed a wolfish grin and a raised eyebrow—made it perfectly clear what he wanted—and let them follow him. In all the years that he had used that technique—and it had been a few years, indeed—it had never failed him.

But now he felt like he was losing ground. He hadn't made it clear what he was asking her, and he wasn't sure what he was asking her. Did he want to sleep with her? Well, he was a red-blooded man, and he could see that she wasn't unattractive. Too skinny, sure, but unattractive? No. Of course, she would probably snap in half if he got the slightest bit rough with her, and that could be a problem. But when he had asked the question, had he asked it to get her in bed with him?

"I was just saying that I had a mattress, that's all."

She grinned. "Sounds good."

Shane nodded and began walking towards his tent; he had it strategically placed between several trees, with a string of cans tied around the outside. If anyone tripped the line, the cans would rattle and wake him. Before she even got inside, Quinn already knew that he was the type of man that would sleep with his gun beside him, ready for action at a moment's notice.

Inside, he had two mattresses pushed together in the middle of the tent—far away from the edges where something could claw through the material. Sure enough, his pistol and his shotgun lay on what was clearly his side of the pallet. His stuff was at the foot of the mattress, tucked into a duffel bag.

Once they were both inside, he zipped the door closed again and slipped his boots off. Quinn didn't think anything of it until she heard the clicking of metal-on-metal and realized that it was his belt buckle.

"Woah Seabiscuit! What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm getting ready to go to bed. Now, if me being in my boxers bothers you, I can wear my shirt, but I've been in those pants all day, and I can't sleep in them."

"Oh." Suddenly, she felt shy as she realized that he had a point. She wasn't really one for sleeping in her clothes, either. She'd done it the past few nights because she was too exhausted to care, but the belt was pinching on her hips and her overshirt was dusty. "No, I'm good. Nurse, remember? It's not like I haven't seen a man's bare chest before."

"Not one like this you haven't," he joked.

She rolled her eyes in response and turned her back as he finished stripping down to his boxers. Before he turned to look, she quickly shimmied out of her overshirt and jeans and slid beneath the covers, pulling them up over her chin so that he couldn't see her body. As he got beneath the covers, she turned away and faced the other side of the tent.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Trying to sleep. What does it look like?"

"You look like you're hiding under the covers. I'm not the big bad wolf, you know."

Quinn rolled over to face him, making sure the blankets were still tucked up to her chin. "I'm not going to have sex with you," she said bluntly.

He stopped for a moment, taken aback by her abruptness. "You don't have to have sex with me."

"Okay. Just so it's clear. Because I'm not having sex with you. The world may be all kinds of fucked up, but I'm not going to sleep with guys all willy-nilly."

"Okay." He turned over and settled back in to go to sleep. A period of silence stretched between them, though it really wasn't all that silent at all because Quinn kept tossing and turning and trying to get comfortable.

"Hey Shane?" she finally whispered.

"What?"

"So, I'm still not gonna have sex with you, but…aside from cleaning wounds and you helping me walk, I haven't hand any human contact in…a long damn time." He waited in silence for her to finish what she was saying, knowing that her statement had to be going somewhere. "Can you hold me? I know I'm not Lori, and I'm not looking for any kind of commitment, but I need to remember what it feels like to touch another human being."

He slid towards the middle of their makeshift bed and pulled her close to him. When her body pressed against his, he could feel the prominence of her ribs and hip bones and silently vowed to make sure that she was eating enough. She rested her head on his chest and threw one leg across his body as his arms held her close.

"This okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just don't get any ideas. I'm still not going to have sex with you."


	5. Target Practice

**Author's Note: **I didn't intend for this to take so long for me to get out, and I am sorry for that. Thank you for all of the reviews, and I hope that you enjoy this chapter. Please review!

* * *

><p>When she woke up in the morning, Quinn found herself in a situation that seemed entirely different from the one that she had been in the night before. She was still in the same position, physically, but suddenly she realized just how provocative her position really was. Her leg was thrown across his hips, her hands splayed across his chest, which, she noticed for the first time was incredibly muscular. Shane's hands had migrated downward—one was resting on her waist, the other on her butt—and were holding her closer.<p>

And then there was the small matter of her being incredibly aroused.

She froze, unsure of how to get herself out of the situation she was currently in. All of her common sense was screaming for her to quickly slide off of him, get her clothes back on, and get the hell out of that tent. But then there was the other part of her—the part that noticed just how very muscular his chest was, or how very warm his hands were—that was telling her to absolutely stay exactly where she was. Well, not _exactly _like she was, but that part of her brain wasn't telling her to leave, which was problem enough in itself.

Finally, the logical part of her brain won out and she very carefully tried to untangle herself from his embrace. The task was harder than she had initially planned for it to be, and in the process, Shane awoke.

"Good morning," he said, his voice rumbling low in his chest, his hands holding her closer.

"Morning. I should get up and get going…"

"No," Shane whispered in her ear, his breath warm on her cheek. "No, you should stay."

"Shane, we've got work we've got to do, and I'm starving—"

He laughed at the irony of her statement. It was a low, deep rumbly laugh that reverberated through his entire body. His laughter was infectious and before she knew it, she was laughing, too. It was the first real laugh she'd had since…well, since before she had found herself locked in that FEMA trailer and watching someone starve to death. For a while, Quinn had thought that she wouldn't laugh again, that she would never have anything to laugh at again.

"You know, I didn't think that I would survive to laugh at anything again," she whispered, when their laughter finally subsided. "It feels…strange. Strange, but good."

Shane slipped his hands beneath her shirt and ran them lightly over her back. He felt her jerk against him, heard her small gasp of surprise, but she never told him to stop.

"Nice," she whispered. "It feels…nice."

"Just nice?" he teased, laying a light kiss on her neck. She gasped and arched against him. Encouraged by her reaction, he rolled them over, pinning her to the mattress beneath his body, and continued to kiss her neck.

"Good. It's good," Quinn gasped, wrapping her arms around him and arching up into the kisses. Her heart was racing, her breath coming in short gasps; it was good—better than good—and she couldn't deny that it was something that she wanted. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer to her. She was wonderfully, agonizingly aware of just how good every one of those muscles—among other things—felt pressed against her.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

Shane brought his lips down on hers, and it was everything she had thought it would be. He was entirely in control of the kiss, pushing and dominating and completely in control. It was the kind of kiss that was dangerous: one that made you give up all control, but was good enough for her not to care. It was rough—his hands were tangled in her hair, tugging just a bit too sharply to be comfortable—and somehow that made it all the better.

His fingers had just slid below the waistband of her panties when they heard a distinct shuffle outside the tent. Quinn quickly rolled out from beneath Shane, reaching for his shot gun. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her behind him, raising the shotgun as he stood at the ready.

"Who's there?" he called, every muscle in his body tense. It was as if he had flipped a switch inside him, and all traces of the playfulness that had been there were gone.

"It's Dale," the voice answered. "We're getting ready for our shooting lesson, and we need you for that."

Quinn sighed in relief and sagged against Shane; she didn't realize that she had been trembling until that moment. His arm around her waist was the only thing supporting her shivering body, and while it did make her feel weak, she was grateful for it—for the moment, anyway.

"Alright. I'll be there in a minute," Shane replied, putting the shotgun on the floor of the tent. As they heard Dale walk off, they both sighed in relief.

"Now," Shane whispered, lowering her to the mattresses again. "Where were we?"

Quinn pulled away—though not without reluctance—and pulled her pants on. Shane watched, noticing the way that her ribs stood out too much and the sharp angles of her hipbones. Noticing his scrutiny, Quinn blushed and quickly finished dressing.

"We've got shooting lessons to get to," she answered quietly.

"You're coming?"

"A shooting lesson couldn't hurt, if only as a refresher course. And I think I'll probably go insane if I have to sit around here with Hershel for another day. I get the distinct impression that he doesn't like me very much."

"I don't think Hershel really likes anybody," Shane replied, reluctantly pulling on his shirt. Quinn had to admit that she was reluctant to have him button it up. Before she could act on any of her baser impulses, she pulled her boots on and quickly left the tent. Dale noticed her exit, but didn't bother to say anything to her.

Inside the house, it was mostly quiet. The others had already gotten their breakfast and were waiting outside. She quickly snagged what was left over and made her way back out to where the group was waiting, most of them with guns in hand. She noticed Rick and Lori deep in conversation, Shane standing beside them. Only at a second glance did she notice that Carl was standing beside them, too. Finally, Lori nodded and Carl went to stand with the rest of the people who were going to shooting lessons.

Quinn made her way over to the group that was waiting for shooting lessons, stuffing her face with food the whole way. She saw the looks she was getting from some of the others, and her cheeks burned under their scrutiny. Dale was wondering if she was strong enough to be going out and shooting guns, and he was worried. Carol was looking pretty similar. Andrea had already made up her mind that Quinn wasn't strong enough to go and didn't want her there. Some of the others actually seemed genuinely interested in how she would do. Either way, it had her feeling like she was in a fishbowl, and it wasn't a feeling that she particularly liked.

"Are you gonna go shooting with us?" Carl asked, tapping her on the leg.

She glanced down at the small, pale kid in the sheriff's hat with a gun in his hand. It wasn't a picture that she particularly liked, but it was something that she was quickly starting to see as a fact of life. Everyone had guns; everyone _needed _guns. Children carrying guns was a fact of life that she was just going to have to get used to. Still, the gun didn't look right in the young boy's hand.

"That's the plan, sheriff," she answered lightly.

"You're really skinny."

"Yeah, it happens." This time, her voice came out more sharply than she intended, and she could immediately see a twinge of hurt in the boy's expression. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm not really feeling good. It's making me a little grumpy. But I see you're gonna learn to shoot."

Carl smiled, suddenly more excited and lively than she had seen him since she had joined the group. Obviously, he was still too pale for her liking, but it was good to see him out and about.

"Yeah. Shane is gonna teach me to shoot so I can protect Mom and Dad."

"Protect your mom and dad?" Quinn asked. Carl just nodded, and before she could press for more, they were piling into cars and pulling away from the farm.

She sat in the backseat of the car while Shane drove and Andrea sat in the front seat, guns in their laps. Quinn continually looked out the window, just waiting for a horde of walkers to emerge from the forest that lined the road. None came, but it didn't help her relax any more, either.

The woods weren't quiet as she had expected them to be; instead, they were filled with the signs of life: birds were singing quietly, crickets chirped, and mosquitoes buzzed in her ears. The snapping and cracking of twigs as they trampled through the woods had her on edge—she remembered too well the sounds of bones cracking in the jaws of hungry walkers—and by the time they reached the place that they were going to be practicing, she was fighting to stop her hands from shaking.

Shane walked ahead of the group, his head held high as he walked through the woods—the perfect picture of confidence with his shotgun in his hand and his pistol tucked into the back of his waistband. She felt small and a little ridiculous as she tramped along behind him, using one hand to keep her pants from slipping off over her hips. In her other hand, she held a pistol. It was the same pistol that she had used back at the FEMA site, but now—without the adrenaline rush—it felt heavy and awkward in her hand. She sighed.

They stopped in a clearing at the edge of the fence. Quinn assumed it was the fence that marked the end of Hershel's property—the fence that was helping to keep out the walkers. She could only hope that all of their noise wasn't going to attract more walkers than they could handle. But then, they brought enough ammunition with them to sink a battle ship—hell, it would probably sink an aircraft carrier, too—so maybe it wasn't something that she really had to be worried about.

Shane stood out in front of the group, showing them the basic stance for holding a gun: feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot slightly in front of the other, gun held in the dominant hand while the less dominant hand braced the butt of the gun.

"When you're aiming, look down the barrel. There are two little notches—one at the top, and the other at the end of the barrel—and you want to line up those notches with your target. Once you've got it lined up and you're ready to shoot, all you need to do is make a fist. Don't try to pull the trigger with just one finger. If you do that, the gun is gonna kick back and your shot is gonna miss. Close your whole hand and make a fist," Shane explained as he modeled for the group. "Got it?"

Everyone nodded, though Quinn suspected that they never would have admitted it if they didn't understand.

"Okay," Shane said. "Before we start shooting, I want to see your stance. Put the safety on the gun and show me your best stance."

Quinn stood up straight, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she waited for Shane to come by and tell her that her stance was okay. He made his way down the line, giving quiet feedback to each person so that they could make adjustments. She heard his quiet, almost fatherly comments to Carl, and it brought a smile to her face. Everyone looked on as he helped Carl adjust his stance.

When he reached Quinn, he studied her intently and, again, she felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. She could feel the heat of his body as he stood behind her, and she said a silent prayer of thanks that her hands didn't start trembling. He put a hand on her thigh and slid her leg backward to help her balance, but if anything, his touch made her slightly dizzy. When he ran his hand over her arm and down to her hand to adjust her grip, the feeling only got worse. She bit her lip, trying to fight back a gasp.

"You need to make your stance wider," Shane said, his voice low and rumbling in he touched her thigh again. "And make sure that you cradle the gun. Be firm, but don't hold it too tight."

Quinn nodded and adjusted her stance. Shane made a small sound of approval and moved on to the next person in line. She made it a point not to sigh in disappointment as he walked away. Instead, she studied her target and tried not to focus on anything else.

"Safety off!"

There was a series of quiet clicks as each person in the line flicked the safety off and prepared to shoot.

"Fire!"

No sooner were the words out of Shane's mouth did the forest fill with noise. There was the loud sound of the gunshots, and then the quieter _ping _of metal hitting metal whenever someone managed to hit one of the tin cans. Quinn stared down the barrel, lined up her shot, and made a fist.

One shot. _Ping. _

Two shots. _Ping. _

Three shots. _Ping. _

She continued until her magazine was empty, each shot hitting the target with a quiet _ping. _ When Shane walked past her again, he stopped, nodding in approval.

"Who taught you to shoot?" he asked, his voice raised over the sounds of the other gunshots.

"My mom. She was always afraid the house was gonna get broken into, so she bought us a gun and learned how to shoot. Wanted to make sure I could do it, too."

"Well, your mom taught you well. You ever practiced on moving targets?"

"Other than walkers, you mean? Not for a long while."

Shane leaned in closer so that she could hear. "You may wanna take the advanced session after this, then."

Excitement at having a new task to concentrate on, something else to try and improve at was definitely tempting. But she could already feel the burning in her exhausted legs, and the weight of the gun in her puny little arms was making her tired. She sighed in frustration, knowing that she was going to have to return to camp with the rest of the people who needed further practice.

"I'll have to do it another day. I'm—"

"Still recovering," Shane finished for her. "Absolutely. We can do it another time."

"We _will _do it another time," Quinn insisted, trying to hide her frustration at being unable to participate for as long as she wanted. "Maybe tomorrow?"

Shane nodded and moved on down the line, taking note of each person's ability. When he reached Andrea, she could see him talking to her and assumed that he must be making Andrea the same offer he'd made her. From the triumphant grin on Andrea's face, she knew that she was right. Unlike her, Andrea would be able to stay when she had to return to the farm with everyone else.

When they started to pack it up and go, Quinn saw that she was correct. Andrea stayed behind with Shane as everyone else piled back into the other vehicles and headed back to the farm. Sitting in the back of the car, Quinn kept careful watch, even as her body was begging for her to fall asleep, to let her rest.

"You know how to shoot," Dale said to her, trying to make conversation.

"Yeah. My mom taught me how," Quinn answered, still staring out the window of the car, her body tense. "I can do handguns really well. My accuracy with rifles isn't as great as I'd like for it to be, but…I guess I'll just have to practice more."

"That's a good attitude to have." Bless is heart, Dale sounded like he actually meant it.

"Well, considering that I thought I was going to starve to death all by myself a dark, stinking FEMA trailer, it's pretty easy to have a good outlook on life. I didn't think I was ever gonna breathe fresh air again, and here I am on a farm, feeling the sunshine on my face again. To say it's a vast improvement is a bit of an understatement."

They pulled up in front of the farm and everyone piled out of the car, leaving Quinn and Dale alone. Dale took his rifle and quickly climbed up the ladder to the top of the RV. Quinn followed him, though it took her longer to get up the ladder. Seeing someone more than twice her age moving faster than she was did nothing for her self-esteem.

"I know you spent the night in Shane's tent last night," Dale said, his voice changing now that they were alone.

"There's nothing wrong with that. I'm a grown woman, and I'm entitled to sleep with whomever I choose," Quinn barked back, her voice sharp and defensive.

"Shane isn't a nice man. I know you're probably grateful that he got you out of there but—"

"But nothing. It's not any of your business."

"Before you were with us, Shane nearly killed Rick. Did he tell you that?"

Quinn froze, though she knew that she shouldn't be surprised. They were talking about the same man that had shot Otis in the leg and left him to die. If he was willing to kill Otis, she should hardly expect that he hadn't tried it on anyone else. And yet, she was just as complicit in Otis's death as Shane was. She had been there and done nothing; worse, she had helped things along after the fact. She had never had the urge to kill again—or before that.

"What do you mean?" she finally whispered.

"When we first met Shane, he was with Lori and Carl. Rick wasn't with them. He'd been shot and was in the hospital back in their hometown. They thought he was dead and left him behind. When Glenn and the others came back from Atlanta, they brought Rick with them. The next day, Shane and Rick were in the woods. When I walked up, Shane had Rick in his sights. He was holding his rifle up, and _he didn't put it down." _

Quinn clenched her jaw, trying to process the information before she reacted. Whether it was true or not, it wasn't an issue that she was going to deal with in front of Dale. She hadn't been there long enough to really understand all the dynamics of the group, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that Dale had something against Shane. Maybe it was completely legitimate, but until she figured out what it was, she was siding with the guy who saved her life.

"He saved my life," Quinn said quietly.

"I understand that you might feel obligated to him, but he isn't a good man—"

"I'm done with this conversation."

"You shouldn't trust him, especially not after what he did to Otis!"

Quinn froze in midstep as she was climbing down the ladder from the top of the RV. She wanted to turn around, to go throttle him and find out what the hell he knew about what had happened to Otis. Instead, she continued climbing down the ladder and walking away, never looking back. She passed Lori, who only stared at her with wide eyes. She slipped inside Shane's tent and settled into the covers, trying to fall asleep. Sleep didn't come.

When she heard the sound of a car pull up, she knew that she should get up and go see who it was—despite the fact that she knew it was Shane and Andrea—but she didn't. Instead, she kept laying there, still contemplating what Dale had said. However, when she heard an annoyed huff outside the tent, she unzipped the door just in the slightest to see Andrea walking away, disappointment on her face. At the RV, Shane and Dale were having an intense conversation and neither of them looked particularly happy.

Shane stormed over to the tent and threw the flap open, shutting himself inside. He seemed almost surprised to find Quinn on the mattress, but after getting over the shock, he clearly wasn't disappointed. He kicked off his boots and climbed onto the mattress beside her. His arms went around her and he pulled her close, kissing her neck lightly.

Quinn pushed him away.

"What was Dale saying?" she whispered.

"Nothing important. He's just being a nosy old man."

"He knows that something isn't right about the Otis situation. I don't think he knows what happened, obviously, but he knows that something is off."

Shane stopped kissing her neck and froze, turning her on her back to look her in the eye. Every muscle in his body was tense as he heard her words. He could feel the tension in her body and knew that she was anxious about it. If he went down—if Dale knew about what he had done—they were both going to go down. Even if they knew that it was Shane that had shot Otis first, Quinn would still be guilty of covering it up from the others.

"What else did he say?"

She took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she was about to say. It probably wasn't good to be talking about an important issue while lying in bed like they were—not when she had proven the effect that his kisses had on her.

"He said that you tried to kill Rick. That you had him in your sights and you didn't lower the rifle. Is that true?"

Shane sighed, realizing that his kisses weren't going to get him out of this one.

"It's true. But you have to let me explain…"


End file.
